


Good Morning Ichigo!

by Random_Human



Series: Tumblr Prompts [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Mentions of food issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 08:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18117176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Human/pseuds/Random_Human
Summary: Isshin Kurosaki loathed his son. While the rest of the world saw it as the discomfort of a man unprepared to raise three children alone, select few knew differently.





	Good Morning Ichigo!

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: would you please write an fic about Ichigo being abused??
> 
> Okay so over on Tumblr I got a prompt from an Anon, this is the result. Warning, although I normally enjoy my angst with a happy ending, I wasn't feeling it, so this is pretty much pure sadness.
> 
> Happy reading..?

There was always a tension within the Kurosaki family, a discordance that was usually hidden from view, but now, alone, was out in plain sight. Isshin Kurosaki hated – no hated was not the right word for it – he loathed his son. While the rest of the world saw it as the discomfort of a man unprepared to raise three children alone, select few – those of the Kurosaki household – knew differently. 

When he was a child, Masaki was there, to temper the ingrained prejudices of the father of the house – ‘Mummy’s boy’ he would say, ‘wimp’, ‘coward’ – and with her help Ichigo tried his best, he went to Karate lessons – even though he hated fighting – but he could not bring himself to stray far from his mothers comforting presence. It was one of those times, when he held on to her hand, elated for once by not only her presence but by the fact that he had finally one a fight – Tousan would be so proud! But even in his excitement, he could not help but notice the figure by the river. ‘It's dangerous down there’, he thought, ‘and it’s slippery.’ Knowing it was his job - as a protector – to keep others safe, he ran towards her.

From there the memories became hazy, disjointed and fragmented. A shout – his mother’s voice – a body, desperately pushing him away, her pained gasp, the feel of warm liquid – so at odds with the icy rain – seeping into his clothes, her prone body, shielding him even though she was the one who needed help. The scent of copper filling the air, the icy rain – so cold, as it seeped into his very soul – making everything so slippery, turning her over, pained eyes meeting his, ‘my son…’ A wailing cry, ‘Kaachan, Kaachan, please!’ Desperate whimpers, no, no, this could not be happening. No… 

He isn’t sure who found them. Who pulled him out of the rain, tugged him away from the tight hold he had on his mother – on her corpse. All he remembers is his sisters' sobs as they are told they will never see their mother again. His father’s pained moan as he realises his wife was now gone forever. The silence that filled the house when the cries finally subsided.

At the funeral, his sisters clung to him. They were already close, but now they had become inseparable. In the days prior it had been he who took over the role of their carer, their father locked away in the clinic as he drunk himself into a stupor. It was he who did his best to feed them, cooking what little he remembered from his mother’s instruction with shaking, too-small hands. Some of the burns from his failed attempts would remain forever ingrained into his skin. It was on that very day, when they had returned home, faces wet and eyes cried out, that the tension within Isshin’s frame finally snapped. 

His voice terse, he almost shouted, “Ichigo, to your room. Now!” 

The little boy, confused, sad and a bit scared, “… Tousan?”

“Now! I can’t stand the sight of you!”

Ichigo soon learnt, in a moment of drunken rambling, that Isshin blamed _him_ for Masaki’s death. He wasn’t sure why, but it was an inescapable fact. From there they fell into a despondent pattern. Ichigo would wake up in the mornings, sneak downstairs in the predawn silence and prepare for the day. He would make the twins lunches, make something for himself, make sure they all had the right clothes to wear to school and start on breakfast. Often Yuzu and Karin would try for every last second of sleep, so they would gently wake to the delicious scent of a perfectly cooked breakfast – for Ichigo couldn’t stand the initial looks of distaste on their faces, he learnt fast. Ichigo would serve them all, leaving an extra bowl filled for their father’s inevitable return. 

Sometimes they would miss him, Ichigo breathing a sigh of relief as he walked the girls to school. But more often than not, midway through the meal he would stumble downstairs and collapse into the empty seat, smelling of the bitter liquid he spent hours consuming. Sometimes he would leave well enough alone, but if Ichigo was too loud, if one of the girls called for his words or opinion at the wrong time, if Isshin looked up and saw his face at the wrong angle… his face would freeze. Eyes becoming cold as he took in the sight of his oldest, the threat of violence palatable as Ichigo would realise his time was up, and scurry to the safety of his bedroom.

It was lucky Ichigo was so good at hiding bruises. That his run-ins with small-time thugs – once deterred by his mother’s presence – were such a good excuse.

For a while this became the new status-quo, Ichigo learned the value of silence and his sisters knew to keep their conversation to a minimum as to not set off Isshin – he never touched them, Ichigo more than enough of a target. It wasn’t until the money ran out, that the children begun to look gaunt and pale as their cupboards became increasingly bare, that questions began to be asked about those strange looking marks, that life changed.

Isshin was forced to sober up, to reopen the clinic and maintain the image of doting father, to keep the customers coming and the questions silenced. For a while, things were better. The new normal was tolerable; Ichigo’s presence was unnoticed and uncommented on, while the girls were given extravagant gifts. Then the anniversary came. And shortly with it, Ichigo’s 11th birthday.

Isshin knew he couldn’t be too overt, and without the alcohol clouding his mind, without his rage being constantly pulled to the surface, he had the time to consider, the time to think.

Ichigo never was the fist coming, exhausted, as he was by the amount of care needed for a household their size. It was early, even for him. A weekend, so he had decided to treat himself with a lie in for once, his sisters would understand. It was his birthday after all.

He woke to a shout, “Good morning son!” He woke to a new type of pain, focused and hidden.

“Good afternoon Ichigo!” A kick to the chest

“Hello…”

To an outside observer it would appear a bit odd, but nothing too out of place. A father wanting to toughen up his son a bit, wanting him to be able to protect himself and his sisters. At least that’s what Ichigo told them.

Over the years, he got better at dodging. He knew he couldn’t fight back, even though his skills had been honed by years worth of thugs. But he could turn to the side, push a fist of a leg away, crouch down or jump to the left. 

Isshin acted proud, he would shout, “Finlly, getting the hang of it!” Would grin towards Masaki’s poster, would wait for the next attempt. What few hits he did get in were at times worse than the days worth of individual harms Ichigo had gotten in the past.

And then Rukia came and with her a world of danger. A new roommate and the hope for newfound protection. Isshin knew he had to be careful around the girl, lest she speak of it to Kisuke or anyone else of influence. But she was so unknowing of human customs, of their cultures and ways, that she easily accepted the excuse of training. That she didn’t look closely at the bruises it left or passed them off as remnants of fighting hollows.

Kisuke could not comprehend the idea of one of his friends – although not close – harming a child, his own child.

The Shinigami saw little of the interior lives of the Kurosaki family, only concerned with how Ichigo could help, what he could do for them.

The Visoreds were a fleeting relief, at least while living with them Ichigo knew when he would be attacked.

The Final Getsuga was his undoing. Everything he had built up for himself, everything he had sacrificed for the sake of others, all coming to a head. Year’s worth of believing that others would always come before him, that he was the sole protector of all.

He woke up, aching and alone. Drowning in his own mindscape. He woke up to pain.

“Good morning Ichigo!”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Anon, hope this is what you wanted. If not I can probably try to fix this with another chapter?
> 
> If anyone else wants to send me a prompt feel free to do so at, [dalek-missy](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dalek-missy)


End file.
